


8 Weeks

by Robin



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Drama, Episode Related, F/M, Not Beta Read, Romance, Spring cleaning my hard drive, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23868535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin/pseuds/Robin
Summary: Happiness is an illusion.Takes place in between 2x24 "No Reason" and 3x01 "Meaning."
Relationships: Lisa Cuddy/Greg House
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	8 Weeks

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read. This sat on my hard drive for 5+ years, so as part of my spring cleaning, I edited and posted it.
> 
> If any medical aspects are incorrect, I’m sorry. I tried to follow the time frame given in 3x01.

0

Two days after his surgery, Cuddy brought him flowers. It was a whim, the flower shop being on her way to work, and as she entered her hospital, holding the lilies in her hands, she wondered why she had even bothered. He would hardly look at them anyway, would throw them out, probably even in front of her. This was, of course, House.

But though he made a disparaging comment, just as she'd anticipated, there was an odd lack of antagonism behind his words. He was almost (almost, almost) smiling. He let her put the flowers in a vase, then the vase on the table, where only a few cards were perched, and a teddy bear from Cameron.

She found, as she sat next to his bed, that there was a strange peace about him, one she hadn't seen for a long time. His eyes were closed and he was still; his breathing was even, and for once, the restless energy that always seemed to encompass him was calm.

She was not certain of what to say, what to ask, as she had already been informed of his current state (recovering well, would be released in several days, ready to go home, ready to start therapy), but the silence was not uncomfortable, so maybe nothing needed to be said after all.

When she lightly put her hand on his, he didn't open his eyes. But to her surprise, he did not pull away either.

\---

1

She visited him the first week at his home. Much of his physical therapy took place there, as he had requested. He'd asked for eight weeks off. Eight weeks seemed long but not outrageous, and she had agreed. She knew, too, that House could never stay away long from work - for him, puzzles, the interesting ones, were not an obligation; they were food, air, light.

He let her in. Surprising. She'd half anticipated him not to even answer the door. But if he felt any shock or annoyance at her appearance, he did not show it. Instead, the door was left open for her as he moved away.

She had only been inside a few times before, and certainly not in several years. She entered, seeing little had changed, aside from one or two pictures, a new lamp, a few things rearranged. Physically, it was mostly the same. But the _feeling_ -

His movements were stiff as he hobbled about the apartment to the kitchen. It was nothing to be concerned about (yet she still was, if only slightly). The unused muscles in his leg - the ones that remained - had atrophied over the years. He would still be unable to fully use his leg, at least for a while. His daily regiment involved exercising them, working them slowly until they would be able to support his weight. Probably, he should have been using his cane, but he was stubborn like that.

"Be careful not to strain yourself," she said, speaking not only of his leg but of the gunshot wounds and the sutures.

Dutifully in response but without any malice: "Yes, Mommy."

And then a smile. It was small, but it was genuine; unprepared, she was caught off guard.

Memories hit her, of him from before the infarction. An ass, still, that never changed - he had been cocky, arrogant, and sarcastic, a show-off and narcissist, always pushing people to their limits and then past, but though his expulsion from Hopkins had surely had an effect on him, then, before, he had lacked the hate, the angry bitterness at the world that so characterized him now.

It was easy to forget, looking at that smile, everything that had transpired in those twenty-some years since they had first met.

Her thoughts disturbed her, but she pushed them aside and accepted the hot coffee he handed her, ignoring how cool his fingertips felt in comparison.

\---

2

"How is the ketamine treatment going? Any pain so far-" She wanted _not_ to hover, but it was hard to resist. He was so like a child, even had a lollipop he'd swiped from the nursing station.

"Good. None. Stop worrying." He drummed his fingers on the examining table. The cane was conspicuously absent from his side.

Not satisfied, she tried again. "If you have _any_ pain, we need to know-"

"Why are you here?" he interrupted, pulling the lollipop from his mouth. His voice was curious, with maybe a hint of exasperation.

Truthfully, if not complete, she said, "You're my employee, and a friend, and I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Why, thank you for your concern, Dr. Cuddy. I'm doing well. _Super_ , in fact. Sutures are coming out today, two weeks on the dot. I'll be back to looking pretty in no time, except for a few grotesque scars, but I'm told chicks dig war wounds."

She looked at him wordlessly, her face a mask that he could see right through.

Perhaps taking pity on her, he said, "Stop worrying. I feel fine."

If only.

\---

3

The next time she saw him was by chance, the following week at the gym pool. It was early (when had House _ever_ woken before eight?) and a weekday, so the pool was empty. It was why she always chose this time - she liked the solitude it provided.

To say she was disconcerted was an understatement. He had always been adamantly against swimming, even those days and weeks after the infarction. She had asked Wilson about it once. Surely that sort of exercise might help him, she'd said. Wilson had only replied that some perverse side of House assumed the world would recoil at his leg, at the gaping hole in it: 'I've tried telling him he's an idiot...' and 'You know House.' She had not asked again. That _was_ House: assuming the worst, never _trying_.

Now, he was lying on his back in the water, floating, looking content, at ease. Not serene, exactly, but something close to it.

And she watched him, staring, wondering why she felt like crying.

\---

4

She was sleeping, or perhaps almost there, when she heard the tapping on her window. She woke almost immediately; disoriented at first, she thought she had imagined the sounds until she heard, muffled by the glass, her last name.

Only one person would come to her bedroom window this late at night, calling her that.

She slid out of bed, padding across the floors to the curtains, which she pulled aside. Standing there was, of course, House. She gave him a look, but he only tapped on the glass again.

She sighed and opened the window. "House? What are you doing here?"

"Jogging," House said, but he was grinning.

He was sweating heavily, wearing only a t-shirt, shorts, and running shoes. He looked good, healthy. She almost bit her lip.

"You live five miles away!" she said.

Innocently: "I wanted to see what you were wearing."

She rolled her eyes. "You've seen. Now go away, House."

"I live five miles away!" he mimicked, pitching his voice higher. "At least give me some water."

She glared, measuring the fuss he was likely to raise versus bearing ten minutes of his company. Finally, she relented: "You can come in, but only for a few minutes."

More than a few minutes later, she had let him inside, and they were standing in her kitchen; him sweating, drinking a glass of water, she leaning against the counter in a tank top, shorts, barefoot. Her fingers were tapping nervously on her crossed arms as she watched him. Even now, _especially_ now, she couldn't keep her eyes off of him. She told herself it was concern; the concern of a friend, of a boss. ( _Liar_ , a voice whispered.)

He finished, setting the glass down next to her, and she shifted her gaze away, almost as if embarrassed.

"Thanks."

Her eyes swung back to him, startled by the uncharacteristic words. It occurred to her, then, how close they were, and how little they were both wearing, and the time of night. All those feelings she had tried to bury or write off as something else, for years and years, were coming to the surface. In his eyes, she thought she saw emotions mirroring her own, and was stunned by his blatant desire. Had he always looked at her this way, or did he only allow himself to, now?

He might have breathed her name, or nothing at all, and she knew, or must have known, that this was all a pretext. But when his lips met hers, she was already leaning halfway toward him, a willing participant.

Stumbling to her bedroom, they barely separated on the way there, as if parting would wake them from whatever dream they were sharing, the physical contact between them a lifeline.

Lips on skin, fingertips, fingernails, sweat, hard and fast, and before she knew it, she was gasping and crying out, and she heard his voice, too, not far after hers.

As they lay in her bed, she turned toward him, curling up against his right side. As before, those few weeks ago, he did not pull away from her touch. Had he not gone very still and tensed for several seconds, she might have thought he was sleeping. But then he relaxed, saying nothing, so she closed her eyes, laid her head lightly against his shoulder, and allowed his quiet breathing to lead her to sleep.

\---

5

She had not expected him to come back. But no, that was not quite true. (Were "hope" and "expect" the same thing?)

Since their night together, the previous week, she had not seen or heard from him. He had left early in the morning, before she'd awoken. There was no note, no sign of his being there, except for her sore muscles, the dried fluid on her thighs, and, in the laundry hamper, the towel that smelled of him.

Her one call to Wilson, a casual inquiry, had revealed nothing. No outrage, no astonishment, no disgust. She surmised, correctly, that House had not even told his best friend about them.

At around 9 o'clock, she was curled up on the couch, reading a book - at least in theory. Her mind was elsewhere, nowhere. A knock on the door jolted her out of her daydreams.

She guessed it was House. Hoped/expected.

Through the peephole, she saw him standing on the doorstep. She opened the door. He wore jeans and a t-shirt; his hands were in his pockets, his face carefully neutral. Unlike before, he was not sweating or panting - clearly, he hadn't been running.

"Hey." She raised an eyebrow, tried (unsuccessfully, as always) to hide a smile. "It doesn't look like you need a towel."

He shrugged. "Thought I'd walk it this time."

And before she could interpret that negatively, he crossed over the threshold, cupping her face and kissing her. The kiss was aggressive, demanding. She opened her mouth eagerly, allowing their tongues to play as her hands pulled him closer. And as they edged further into the foyer, her fingers already at the fly of his jeans, his already under her shirt, he shoved the door shut behind them.

They didn't make it past the hallway.

Later, when they were hungry, they left their discarded clothes strewn across the floor and ate leftovers in her kitchen. They fed each other with their fingers, ignoring the forks she had found, and drank from water glasses some of the wine she had been saving for an (imaginary) important occasion.

Their banter was playful; he told her amusing stories about Wilson, about his patients, about his college days. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him like this - charming, funny. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt like this - relaxed, genuinely enjoying herself.

Then, sated with food and alcohol, they had sex again on her kitchen counter.

Eventually, they found their way to her bedroom, to her bed, where they collapsed. He fit himself around her, surprising her, as she had seen him wall himself off over the years, shunning any form of physical contact, tolerating just barely her hand on his shoulder, at his elbow. She knew better than to say anything and instead leaned back into him.

\---

6-7

Their "thing" became more frequent after that. He would come by in the evenings, after she returned from work, or before, waiting in her living room for her, and they would have sex, fuck, make love. Sometimes it would be fast, urgent, and hard, other times agonizingly, wonderfully slow. They tried things one or the other had never experienced (or, at least, never with each other), and did things that his leg, pre-ketamine, wouldn't have allowed.

They never talked about their feelings. She never asked 'why now,' 'why me,' 'why us.' She knew the answers anyway.

From Wilson, they kept their affair quiet. Or rather, House kept it quiet, and Cuddy never thought to bring it up. How Wilson would react if he found out, she didn't know. For now, she clung to this temporary alternate reality where love and work were kept separate.

She didn't count on it lasting. It was not an expectation, not even a hope. For once, she was living in the moment. The future did not worry her because, as always, it would inevitably end in heartbreak and shattered feelings. She was being selfish for now, but selfishness was sometimes good, especially when she had denied herself what she wanted for so long.

She also knew it was not just sex between them. Not really. She could tell it during his rare moments of desperation, when he seemed almost possessed, and, even more unusual, during his occasional displays of gentleness. At times, they wouldn't even have sex until after dinner (carry-out, food he'd bought, meals she made) or after an hour or two of watching TV and sitting against each other on the couch. Usually, he stayed the night, leaving in the early hours of the morning; once or twice he stayed longer. On the nights he didn't come, she missed him, was disappointed, but she never asked him about it when he returned the next day, and he never offered her any explanation - not that she assumed he owed her one.

It was not just sex, yet it couldn't be anything more. That was how they worked, how they had always worked.

But when she was with him, she thought maybe she was happy. And thought that maybe (maybe, maybe) he was happy, too.

\---

8

Time swept by, much too quickly, and the day finally came: House would be back at work the next day.

She had not been sure if he would come over that final night. He did, but they did not speak of anything significant. She was not brave enough to ask if they would continue. Apparently he, too, was afflicted with that same condition; or perhaps he did not care (but no, she knew that he did, in his own way).

Cowardice, misunderstandings, feelings unexpressed: hallmarks of their lives intertwining and pulling away, meeting once again and repelling, over and over.

The words she wanted to say stuck in her throat and died unspoken. Instead, she leaned her face against his chest, closed her eyes, and prayed for the best.

\---

9

And then everything went to hell.

Of course it did. Of course.

She tried to speak to him, to convince him that the treatment, that he, had _not failed_ , that the pain was all in his head, but that invisible wall was between them once again, that insurmountable barrier of bitterness and anger and despair. Repaired once, he was now broken yet again, perhaps permanently this time.

He had shuttered himself off from everyone; he would neither take anything from her nor offer anything of himself, and relationships (what they almost had, what they never had) could not be one-sided if they were to live.

She understood the finality of 'them' from his eyes and his terse, harsh words. She could not, and would not, force him; but she would also not allow herself to waste away, waiting for a day that would never come. She would not become a dying voice, screaming into a void that would never listen.

They had been here before, long ago, and had circled back to this same exact spot, where everything was different but _nothing had changed_.

Expectations and hopes alike were shattered; she had been a fool to want anything else.

So once he was finished, she simply turned and walked away.

\---

Now in the dark, she sleeps alone, knowing that those brief weeks of happiness will eventually fade away into a mere distant memory, like a longed-for illusion that never truly existed.


End file.
